


Shadows Cross, Never Bleed

by bloodofthepen



Series: Blood and Shadow [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodofthepen/pseuds/bloodofthepen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rheia enters Skyrim to join the Mage's College, but gets sidetracked with the Thieves' Guild. When she runs into the Dragonborn Listener, it becomes apparent that while the Assassins and Thieves may have an arrangement, the two were never meant to work in close quarters. When the Brotherhood and the Guild find it necessary to do just that, it is sure chaos will ensue. </p><p>Rheia and Jenassa must work with Valasca and Cicero, but how long can that really be expected to last?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Thief, A Skull, A Mercenary, A Jester, An Assassin

It was probably the heady rush of escaping both execution and not-so-mythical dragonfire, but Rheia swore that skull was watching her recover breath.

            Perched on a narrow, black altar, clean ivory surrounded by dried mountain flowers, its white grin gleaming in the torchlight, it watched with a hollow gaze. Yet, the steady stare did not raise hairs on the back of her neck any more than that of her Imperial companion—she glanced over to find him still scouting ahead—then settled on the skull again.

            It was _definitely_ the adrenaline affecting her judgment when it occurred to her that the skull’s gaze was somewhat imploring.

            Rheia chanced a glance back to the soldier again. He was peering out of the cave’s opening. Without another thought or logical interruption, she scooped the skull off its perch and into her satchel, and joined her companion at the mouth of the cavern, eyes on the sky.

            Adrenaline’s effect on cognitive ability could rival skooma: the skull’s name was Yorick.

* * *

 

            “How do I get myself into these messes, Yorick?” the Breton groaned, lake-water dripping off her leathers to the grassy shore. She gripped the end of a steel-tipped arrow in her hand, the head buried in the ankle of her boot, and, incidentally, the skin and sinew of _her_ ankle. It shot burning spikes of pain through her leg, but it was nothing to the icy fingers of the wind piercing the water on her face. Divines, she _hated_ the cold.

            The skull, tucked safely in the satchel at her side, did not reply. It never did. Though, sometimes, Rheia imagined suitable answers to her thoughts and complaints.

            This time, he told her: “Shady dealings are like damnation: once you’re in, you can’t get out.”

            “Just because I ran skooma for a few months to pay for passage to Skyrim—”

            “And yet, instead of going to the college like you planned, you’re here trying to break into a honey farm for a guild of thieves.” Little bugger always knew where to hit.

            She snapped the shaft in half and pushed what remained into and out the rest of her leg, hissing through her teeth, a simple restoration spell ready at her fingertips when her vision whitened at the edges from pain. “I still want to train, but I need gold for travel, and my skills—” She tried to stifle her scream when the arrow finally came free, and pressed her hands immediately over the wound, pouring every ounce of energy she had into a warm, gentle healing spell. Her flesh prickled as it knitted back together, and a pins-and-needles sensation rushed as the blood-flow returned to normal.

            Rheia made a sopping flop onto her back, grass tickling her neck as she tugged off her hood.

            “Those deviant skills got you this far—it’s really no wonder you’re pursuing them.”

            Sarcastic bastard.

* * *

 

            “What happened to your face?”

            Well, she couldn’t exactly say ‘a skooma deal went bad, and this happened when I tried to get my money’, so Rheia told the child: “Got in a fight with a Khajit. They have a sort of unfair advantage in a fistfight.”

            “Can I touch it?”

            Just as she was imagining Yorick’s laughter, there came a chuckling from the shadows. A dark elf loitered in the lee of a shop.

            Rheia bent double to level her head with the girl’s, and the child felt the four pale, puckered scars that crossed her lips, young blue eyes dancing with awed excitement.

            “For a bit of gold, we could keep that kind of scuffle from happening again,” the elf offered, amusement still playing on her lips.

            “She’s a mercenary,” said the girl, bouncing on her heels, “and lots of fun to watch—she’s so good at being quiet.”

            The elf inclined her head. “Stealth and shadow are my arts—for the right price, I shall make great art for you.”

            “Now that’s the best come-on I’ve ever heard. Even better than the servants of Dibella.”

            The mercenary shrugged. “Whatever works.”

            “Just what is the price…?”

            “Jenassa.” She fixed the little girl under her ruby gaze. Rheia had quite forgotten about the child: surely business would bore her. “Run along, now, Lucia.”

* * *

             It was a lucrative partnership. Where Rheia’s skill in stealth depended upon being seen and forgotten, Jenassa would disappear from even the Breton’s sight, remaining completely masked in the shadows.

            The dark elf quite enjoyed slinking from Rheia’s shadow and reappearing in front of her whenever they grew bored during travel. She tried not to dwell on how easily Jenassa could put that sword or dagger through her chest on any such occasion.

            Yorick liked to remind her each night at camp.

* * *

 

“So.” Jenassa nodded toward where Rheia crouched just off the dusty road, mending the burned skin of her fingers. “The College of Winterhold, then.”

The Breton shook her head in the affirmative. “And soon, I hope. I need to refine this—it takes too long.”

“Well, the flames are impressive; watching a troll burn is always satisfying.” She leaned against the trunk of a tree, smile playing on her lips.

Rheia chuckled. “When I’m not burning myself with them.”

“I didn’t say they were perfect.”

* * *

 

            There was a tome lying just feet away, near one of the bandit’s bedrolls, the mark of healing etched into the cover.

            “I wouldn’t suggest it.”

            _Damn it. Yorick! Shut up._

            “They can’t hear me.”

            _Yorick_.

            She crept closer, slinking against the wall, tunic catching on the granite surface. There was a gurgle some way ahead—she could see Janessa’s shadow play on the wall in the torchlight, a bandit’s shadow sinking heavily before her.

            Footsteps behind as the watch returned. But her hand was brushing the cover so close and…

            _Thwip_.

            Rheia rolled to the side, body tucked protectively around the tome as the bandit charged ahead, arrow’s shaft protruding from his shoulder. “Sound the ala—”

            But he didn’t see Jenassa melt out of the shadows, halting his axe mid-swing, her blade thrusting in a neat arc. The human’s head hit the ground with a sickening, soppy thump, and rolled past the Breton’s still-crouched form.

            Yorick was laughing even before the dark elf turned a disapproving look their way, the sound of a half-dozen pairs of boots converging on their position.

* * *

 

            Rheia poured over the book, propped on a stone as she tried a quick repair of her leather jerkin, tugging a large needle with a flick of her wrist. Janessa deliberately did not face her while wrapping a gash on her leg with the cleanest linen in their possession. She dripped some extra salve near the deepest edge, growling as she tied it off as tight as could be borne.

            “On the bright side, next time I’ll be able to heal you like I do my injuries.” The mage clipped the thick thread, not removing her eyes from the tome.

            “There won’t be a next time, because you’ll save the looting for _after_ the bandits are dead.” Janessa strapped her greave back over the bandaged calf.

            “Right, right.”

            “You have no idea what I just said.” The dark elf glared to where Rheia was bent over the pages, hands unmoving.

            “Hm?”

            This earned an empty bottle to the face.

* * *

 

            There was a next time, of course, for different reasons: the pair stumbled into someone else’s ambush.

            Thalmor often marched prisoners across the plains to their forts in the north—for torture, it was widely known. Rheia was no friend of the Stormcloaks, but neither did she approve of the Thalmor’s power; she wouldn’t wish the bastards on her worst enemy. This led to cutting the bonds of men she would have otherwise turned over to Imperial officers, just to spite the Dominion.

            This time, however, another pair had the same idea, and a normally clean skirmish became, in Yorick’s words, a cluster-fuck.

            As Jenassa crept behind the last Thalmor mage, knife drawn, he dropped, burbling into the dusty road, the black shaft of an arrow protruding from his throat.

            It was too late to move when the others whipped around ( _robes flapping dramatically on the breeze—bastards_ ) to investigate the sound, and there was certainly no hope of explaining that she couldn’t have killed him with that arrow herself.

            The spells began flying. Fireballs, flames, slivers of ice that clashed and melted into the dirt of the road. A blur of motley and the glint of a knife. Rheia could hardly focus enough to keep a healing aura to minimize damage as she swung her mace, catching a Thalmor across his unarmored shoulder. The satisfying crack of bone, crackling of fire on the breeze, and—singing? Singing.

            Jenassa plunged her blade into the Thalmor’s back even as he fumbled a healing spell to his shattered shoulder, and sank into the dampened soil.

            The spray of blood, a whistle, a whir—

            “ _KRII_.”

            It was a tremor through the air, a whisper, a growl carried on the wind, and without comprehension, Rheia’s blood ran cold with the word’s meaning.

            But it was not for her: the final mage collapsed, drained, onto the road, a woman standing over him, all shrouded in black and a red that might have simply been fine dye or fresh blood, an arrow clasped between her gloved fingers. Gold eyes glinted from the depths the black hood. A fool grinned behind her, trembling with the adrenaline of a fresh kill.

            This was Rheia’s first glimpse of the Listener to the Dark Brotherhood.

            Let us say the wounded thief and her bleeding companion did not leave the best impression.


	2. The Thievery-Magick Conflict

“That was embarrassing,” Jenassa grunted, flexing her newly-healed arm—just as Rheia had promised before, no salves necessary. The Assassins, fortunately, slipped away almost before the dust and tang of blood had time to settle.

Rheia shrugged. “If we’re lucky, we won’t run across them again.” She patted down the blood-soaked robes of the Thalmor first to fall. “I have a feeling they’d be serious trouble even if they weren’t Brotherhood.” A pleased grin crept across her features, stretching the scars on her lips when the searched yielded a few septims.

“Dragonborn.”

Rheia tucked the coins into a pouch in the folds of her armor. “Hm?”

Jenassa shook her head. “The woman—she Shouted. The Dragonborn we’ve been hearing about has apparently caught the attention of the Assassins.”

The Breton frowned. “Then we’ll just have to stay out of their way, and avoid pissing off anyone rich enough to pay them.” She shrugged, shuffling to the next corpse. “Simple enough.” Another gleaming pile of coins. “Rich bastards.” Rheia passed these to the dark elf, satisfying clinks in a gloved fist.

“Altmer.”

Rheia shrugged. “On the whole, maybe, but in this case it might just be that they were Thal—”

“No. The Assassin—the _Dragonborn_ Assassin. She was a high elf.” Jenassa’s gaze roamed the road, a careful eye on the horizon. “She freed the Stormcloak prisoner in the confusion; he’s heading toward Winterhold. Why?”

“If she’s Dragonborn, the Nords probably support her—treat her like a hero. You’ve heard the songs already.” The mage grunted, tugging the corpse off the road, kicking up dust in her wake. “Even if she’s part of the Brotherhood, it’s probably nice to know somebody appreciates your dragon-slaying abilities, finds you heroic for a change. Can’t imagine she’s sympathetic to the cause—just the people. Help me out?”

The Dunmer shook her head, but moved to drag the first body into the ditch with its companion.

“This one has a nice dagger on him—better than steel.” Rheia raised it to the light, curved blade gleaming. The golden, winged fashion of the hilt was not to the thief’s taste, exactly, and her mace served her fine. “Interested?”

Jenassa examined it, tugging the piece gently from Rheia’s fingers. “Indeed,” she agreed. “Scabbard?”

“A little bloody, but nothing we can’t fix.”

* * *

 

The College of Winterhold was grander than Rheia imagined. Towering to the snow-kissed sky, an impressive tower rising out of an impossible chasm. It was amazing; it was beautiful; it was everything she imagined; it was—

“Kind of a ruin.”

_Yorick!_

“Look at this village—Oblivion, look at the bridge! Crumbled walls, disrepair… this place is a relic. Trust me—I spent the last century surrounded by relics.”

_The teachings offered are what count, and you can’t deny that whatever the age or disrepair, it’s an impressive structure._

“An impressive wreck.”

_Keep your jaw shut or I’ll roll you down the chasm._

Rheia tugged her fur-lined hood closer over her cheeks. The wind howled around the stones of the College, but the cold could not dampen her spirits.

Jenassa, face barely visible for the cowl drawn around her mouth and nose, nodded toward the inn. “I’ll take a room until you need me.”

“I—are you sure?” Rheia glanced toward the College, then back.

Those ruby eyes were laughing at her.  “Do I look like I have an affinity for magic?” She shook her head. “Go. I have a feeling you’ll get into trouble shortly.”

“I’ll send word,” Rheia agreed. She turned to the College. She glanced back—Jenassa was already in the relative safety of the inn’s porch. “Thank you.”

The dark elf shrugged, amusement coloring her voice, “Don’t thank me, thank your coin.”

* * *

When next they met, Rheia was wrapped in warm, fur-lined mage robes, a satchel slung over her shoulder, the scars over her mouth distorting her scowl into a sneer. Jenassa was on her feet immediately, inn’s specialty stew forgotten.

“What is it?”

Rheia drew a crumpled parchment from her pocket and slapped it on the table. “From the Guild. ‘Come immediately.’ I just get settled and they think they can snap their fingers and beckon me back.”

“What will you do?” Jenassa asked just as Yorrick—voice muffled—said: “And yet you’re going anyway.”

Rheia shook her bag for good measure while the dark elf’s eyes were fixed on the note. “Fortunately we located a strange artefact that will occupy most of the senor mages’ time—not much left for training.”

“I can be ready immediately.”

* * *

The road to Riften was long; it would be days before the pair saw the end of the wretched snow drifts and pressing flurries. Wintry silence was comfortable, but when you hadn’t seen your travelling companion (a fixture you’d come to expect) for weeks…

“So, did you learn anything useful in Winterhold?”

Wolves howled in the distance.

Rheia grinned, a bolt of fire closed in her fist. “Would you like a demonstration?”

* * *

The Breton’s breath puffed and dissipated in white, misty bursts, cold sinking into her bones despite the fur-lined hood she wore with her Thieves’ Guild armor.

“I don’t like it,” Jenassa grumbled again.

“Careful, or I might start thinking you’ll miss me more than your income.”

The dark elf shook her head. “There’s no reason I can’t come with you. It’s not official business; there’ll be no secrets for me to overhear.”

“We can slip in and out no problem—I’m not that fond of the old bastard, but he’s my superior, and it’s a good idea to have someone cover the exit.”

Jenassa’s eyes glinted from her cowl. “Do what you must, but I don’t agree.”

“You rarely do.”

“ _Ladies_ , if you’re done bickering, can we get to the task at hand?” Mercer’s permanent scowl was deeper than Rheia had seen it since the initial mention of Karliah.

The mage looked to Jenassa. Their eyes met, and the mercenary nodded, heading to the lee of a nearby stone for cover.

“Let’s go.”

* * *

Mercer emerged from the tomb alone, shouting for help. “She’s killed her—she’s killed her!”

Jenassa’s blood ran cold, but she did not move from the shadow of the cairn.

“Elf! Get out here, I need help!” The thief approached the stone she had used for cover before, feet shifting silently through the snow. A blade caught the scant moonlight in his hand.

She was no fool. Mercer did not want any witnesses: no doubt in Janessa’s mind he had slaughtered Rheia with the very same blade. She drew her bow and nocked an arrow, ruby eyes sighting through flurries of snow at Mercer’s leather-clad back.

She would paint the snow with his blood.

The arrow buried itself in the thief’s shoulder-blade.

 _"Damn it_ ,” he hissed, leaning behind the stone, out of her sight.

Painful, but not fatal. Precisely what Jenassa had been counting on.

Fleet and silent of foot, the elf crept across the snow, climbed the smooth face of the snow-swept stone. A dagger of gold and moonstone glinted in her hand, catching what little light there was this grey night. She peered over the edge of the stone.

Mercer was gone.

Without a second thought, Janessa was nestled in the lee of the stone, crouched in its shadow, back protected by the unyielding rock. Her saber was immediately free of its scabbard.

He would not abandon his target now, she was sure.

“You think you can hide from a Nightingale?”

There were no tracks in the snow to follow, save the ones Mercer had made during his initial search. He must have retraced them, or—

Steel met steel in a resounding crash, softened only by the blanketing snow, carrying no more than a few feet.

“You should have run.” Jenassa swiped at his side with the dagger, but Mercer leapt back, regardless of the arrow that still protruded from his shoulder.

“I can best you even one-handed, Dunmer.”

The click of each parry sounded a rhythm, gave a pattern to break, to follow. Duels were a dance, and that’s just the way Jenassa liked it.

“I’ll bleed you out for killing Rheia.”

“That whelp was a waste of talent, anyway. Damn mage.”  His breath came in gasps that complained of severe cold in heated lungs. Janessa’s mouth was covered, breaths safe.

“And yet you slaughtered her from behind—afraid you’d lose?” Her dagger grappled with his, her sword caught the leather at his waist, tore a streak of red, stark against the grey night.

A hiss of pain. “Oh, no—she took Karliah’s arrow for me; I just finished the job.”

Jenassa raised her blade with a growl.

He was gone from sight.

She looked to the stone. It was too far now—the pair had danced away in the scuffle, a trail of ruined snow from the rock to her feet. No cover. No wall for her back against an unseen adversary.

The Dunmer whipped round in a circle, blades extended. A chuckle on the breeze.

A voice at her ear: “Nice try.”

Heat distorted the air. Flames rippled across her sin, and an inhuman cry tore from her lips.

It was answered by a pained yowl and the scampering of feet.

The flames spoke in Jenassa’s ears: a low, thrumming, a heavy, nearly inaudible rush. They cauterized the wound that had opened between her ribs, searing daggers of pain gripping her nerves even as the wound closed. The fire’s thrum rose to a deafening roar—and it was gone. A melted puddle of mud and water and her feet, filthy, steam rising to obscure her boots, slush in the immediate radius, and wet footprints that fled toward Windhelm.

Much of her armor was singed or burned away—the cowl gone, trim and lacing of her armor nothing but ash. Jenassa stumbled, collapsed in the snow, and grieved a friend.


	3. Would You Think Me Mad?

“Cicero still thinks we should have killed the vagabonds, too.” He was pouting, even after the sweetroll Valasca had produced to placate him. She really should know by now that there was no placating where blood was involved.

“They were not with the Thalmor,” she reminded him.

“And why should that matter? They were in the way.” The fool trotted alongside the Listener under the night sky; it was unlikely the pair would meet travelers at this hour, so Valasca did not bother changing out of her Brotherhood leathers and cowl.

She shrugged. “They were helpful distractions. It would be rude to kill them after their help, would it not?”

Cicero heaved a theatrical sigh “I _suppose_ , Listener. But Cicero would _reeeeeally_ like to kill something else.”

Valasca shook her head, an unseen smile playing on her lips before she could think better of it. “What if I told you there was a bounty out on a giant near here? Feel up to it?”

“Oo! Oo! Oo!” The fool danced around the Listener, tumbled, walked on gloved hands. “Does the Listener mean it, or does she only tease poor Cicero?”

“I’m ready if you are.”

“Yes! Yes, Listener, yes!”

* * *

 “Mother, Nazir, Babette, we’re home!”

“I can smell the death from here!” was the Redguard’s answering call as Cicero and Valasca danced and glided—respectively—down the stairs into the front hall, where the pair shrugged off their satchels and left them on the table.

The Listener continued to the shrine, knelt, and acknowledged the Night Mother, who did not speak, but granted a warm sense of approval while the Keeper fussed with some fresh flowers: the only time outside weekly oiling that he was studiously silent. Valasca continued to the main hall alone.

Nazir was stirring a pot over the cooking fire, flames casting dancing shadows over his face. “Did he give you trouble?”

“No, we got a little distracted on the return trip.” She tugged her cowl down around her shoulders, an unapologetic grin gracing her lips.

The Redguard rolled his eyes, tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot and laid it on the nearby cupboard among empty bowls and jars of ingredients spread over its surface. “I’m not sure you two ever come straight home.”

“Too many things to do.” Valasca produced a satchel of coin from her waist. “If it improves your mood, here is the payment from our client and some of the bounty from the giant that delayed our return.”

Nazir chuckled and accepted the bag in one dark palm. “Listener, you speak my language precisely.”

“Whatever we need, Speaker. We’ll have to outfit new recruits.” Nazir intercepted her hand on its way to the stew. She shrugged and folded her arms patiently—the Altmer hadn’t recognized her stomach’s calls for food until that delightful scent reached her nose.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you about that.” He gestured to the table. They sat, the payment gone somewhere in the loose clothing of Nazir’s homeland for later counting and coffering. “You have some power in these decisions. One of these times you get _sidetracked_ , maybe you could hunt down someone to add to the family, hm? The three of us can’t exactly handle all the contracts from now on.” The Listener nodded her agreement. “I have two leads for you, if you’re up to departing already.”

“Oo! Can Cicero join the Listener’s search for new brothers and sisters?”

Valasca felt she should be a little more disturbed that she had not heard him coming. She looked to Nazir, who gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head.

“Oh, boo! It’s the Listener’s decision.” The fool put out his tongue toward the Redguard and bounced on his heels.

She frowned. As far as Valasca was concerned, he was always welcome—and deadly—company. But in this case… “Cicero, even if we leave now, you probably won’t be back in time to tend to Mother.” And won’t disturb attempts to blend in and contact murderers that might not be keen on following orders.

“Oh, the Listener is right, of course.” The fool sighed, a most dejected frown crossing his features. Then—it was gone. “Ah, well! _Sing of the moon/ sing of the sky/ sing of the falcon flying by!/ Sing of drippy-drop blood like rain at high noon—glistening, glistening under the moon!_ ” And he was gone, having skipped jovially up the stairs. If there was another, more disturbing verse, they were gratefully unaware.

“Since _that’s_ out of the way,” said Nazir, shaking his head, “I’d suggest getting a sleeping poison from Babette—I’m sure you recall the method of recruitment.”

“Disappointed you were not there to see it?” Valasca arched a teasing brow.

“Only a little, Listener. The other method is, of course, to meet and… _interview_ … someone actively looking to join.”

“And I presume we have one, since you’ve chosen to mention it?”

“Indeed. A guard in Whiterun, getting a little tired of the mundane, it would seem. He’ll greet you traditionally—‘Hail, Sithis.’ Wear your shrouded hood over some everyday clothes. It’s neutral enough to pass, but easy enough to see for someone searching—he’ll be on the lookout for it.”

* * *

Valasca chose to forego the capture-and-test recruitment for now—it was of little concern to her that a notable murderer was loose in the reach. What was of the Listener’s concern was a target on a farm just outside Whiterun; if all went well with her recruitment of this Nord guard, she could test his mettle with an immediate contract.

She wore her ebony mail, won in a test by Boethiah. The prince desired a little bit of chaos and blood in exchange, and Valencia’s dovah spirit found no trouble in the deal, even after her ties to the Brotherhood were forged: it was a way to spill more blood, after all, and she owed the daedra no loyalty. Her loyalty was freely given, for the first time in years, to Sithis and the Night Mother, to her Brotherhood.

Such armor was no longer necessary as the walls of Whiterun came into sight. Valasca dismounted and shed her mail, tying it to the saddlebags at Shadowmere’s side.

“Apologies, my friend,” she told him. “I don’t relish giving you my burden, but I won’t be long. Is this acceptable?”

The spectral horse settled, met her gaze with his gentle fires.

“I’ll be swift.” The elf donned a simple, dark tunic over her quillion and breeches, lined with a little red thread to bring out that of her hood, making its appearance on her garb less suspicious. She tugged a belt around her waist, a simple ebony dagger replacing the Blade of Woe. She slung her quiver and bow over her back, and shrouded her face within the depths of the hood. It would not do for the citizens to recognize her as Dragonborn.

* * *

Her second circuit of the city. She passed the shrine of Talos and marveled again that no one had yet taken a contract on the damn priest. She nodded slightly to a pair of guards who acknowledged her similarly as she passed. Then—one lagged behind the other.

“I know who you are.” If Valasca had not attuned her ears for the sound, she might have missed it. “Hail Sithis.”

“Hail the Night Mother,” she replied, not missing a step. There was a room ready at the Bannered Mare: he would find a discreet way to follow, or she would depart at sunset.

* * *

 The Nord was more resourceful than Valasca anticipated. An hour after their encounter, the Listener opened her door to a young, clean-shaven man draped in furs---the mark of a hunter in this frigid land.

“Hello, cousin—it is good to see you again.”

A grin of pleased amusement tugged at Valasca’s lips. “Indeed. Come in; we have much to catch up on. If you’d chosen a warmer clime, I might visit more often.” She stepped aside and admitted him, gestured to one f the chairs at the small table provided by the innkeeper. It was much cheaper than the elf could normally afford, but it was all she needed tonight. Small. Inconspicuous. Easily forgotten.

He nodded and sat as bade. They removed their head coverings in tandem, the Nord laying his oversized cap aside.

“What do you require of me?” If he was surprised an Altmer came to greet him, he did not show it. She approved.

“How much do you know of us?” Valasca peered out of the shuttered window, back to her guest, but kept a careful ear on him. He shifted slightly—the chair creaked—but he did not rise.

“You took down the emperor, not for political gain, but for the glory of your god, Sithis, and his prophet, the Night Mother. Is this true?” Clearly, he’d thought long about his reply: considered so much it was nearly rehearsed.

“As accurate as it can be for someone on the outside. ‘Prophet’ is not the term I would use, but you will learn if you can complete the contract I assign.”

“Already?”

The Listener turned to face him, gaze cold, shrouded, even as the dark hood pooled around her shoulders. “Is this a problem?”

The young man’s mouth tightened. “No, ma’am.”

“Listener, or mistress—we are not in your army. If you perform satisfactorily, you will no longer be a soldier: we are much more.”

“Yes, mistress. If I may, what—”

“You will learn what my title means if you pass. Why do you wish to join the Brotherhood?”

He replied without hesitation, straightening in his chair, blue eyes glinting in the low light. “My name is Sven Hjolgar. After this job with the guards—I used to be a soldier—things became too quiet. I mentioned this to another guard in the presence of the Guard Captain, said I wished there’d be a good bandit raid or maybe a skirmish nearby. I was given an immediate and pubic reprimand. The captain said it was foolish and heartless to wish for battle near civilians: my job now was to guard not to kill. Peace, not destruction, she said.” He shrugged. “I’m not cut out for peace. I need an opponent.”

“Assassinations are not battles between armies—they’re seldom battles between two men. It is a hunt in shadow, a sacred duty, bathed in blood.” Valasca frowned. “What makes you believe you are suited to this? Why not join the bandits, initiate the raids?”

“I don’t want meaningless bloodshed, no matter what the captain believes. I need a higher cause. I want to spill blood, but I also want reason.”

A slow grin. “That, we can give.”

* * *

 Blood in the air was a scent, a song, a sound, a dance, a taste.

Her initiate painted beautifully with a crack and a snap and a whir; she pointed and he spattered shade after shade of red into the canvas of fresh evening frost.

The next day, there would be devastation on the farm: they’d call it a slaughter, a body mangled almost beyond definition, bones crushed, splintered, rusty stains that had long since steamed their last breath of life, frozen, torn, _inhumane carnage_. But they would be wrong. Valasca’s blood thrummed with the roar of a dragon, her unwavering grin sang the initiate’s praises.

Her fingers itched for more, and he was as good a target as any.

The Listener stayed her hand, quieted her dovah’s voice. It would not do to cut an artist so early in his career.

She bathed her hand in the blood that dripped, glistening under the moon, from his mace.

“Welcome, Brother.”


	4. Light and Scent

Rheia could hear hissing, sharp hissing sounds, and by the gods, if she awoke surrounded by Dwemer constructs…

But there was a stabbing pain in her chest when she attempted to move, and when her reflex was to exhale through gritted teeth—the Breton realized that the hissing was hers. She settled for opening her eyes to assess the damage from… what, exactly? Bandits? Drugar?

The light burned her eyes—nothing but white and yellow blurs. “Ssssshit.”

A hand grabbed hers much harder than necessary and Rheia’s eyes snapped open to a dark face blocking the blinding light.

“Jenassa,” her voice rang with a disturbing wheeze, but the pain receded to a dull throb when another pair of hands dribbled a salve over—

A stab wound. A wound left by Mercer.

Searing, comfortable heat raced to the mage’s hands as she accessed her magic. “ _Son of a bitch, that gods-damned_ —!”

"You’ll drain your energy!” Another voice. Karliah.

 Rheia let the flames die and sent warm, knitting energy to the wound, and sat up with a hiss—only to be pressed back down by an embrace.

“Je—”

“ _I thought you were dead_.”

Rheia couched as her lungs regained some capacity and wrapped her arms about the elf’s middle. “Didn’t know you cared so much.”

“You get us into just enough trouble, and you have a knack for finding treasure. Try not to flatter yourself.” There was a smile in her voice.

The mage chuckled. She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t… take this the wrong way, but you smell a bit singed.”

Jenassa leaned back, pulling Rheia up with her, the sunlight catching on her yellow facial markings. The thief thought she really ought to ask about them sometime. “I burned the Oblivion out of Mercer before he escaped.”

“You _what_?”

“This is all very touching, but the longer we delay, the more time Mercer has to carry out his plan.” Karliah stood at the edge of the makeshift camp, arms folded over standard Thieves’ Guild armor. Her voice was soft, but carried over the snow.

Rheia blinked dumbly with recollection. “You shot me.”

* * *

 

 “I wish to accompany you.”

Rheia sighed. “It’s… complicated. Karliah and Brynjolf will be with me; I won’t be alone.”

Jenassa frowned. “I’m involved now. I want vengeance as much as you—that bastard has to be stopped.” Her ruby eyes caught the moon’s light, tattoos glinting like streaks of pale sunlight on her cheeks.

Brynjolf and Karliah stood some distance away, in the shadow of the trees. Rheia lowered her voice.

“I promise I’ll explain everything once Mercer is dead.”

“Not good enough. I don’t care if it’s a cult or a god or a daedra involved—I will hunt him.”

Rheia shoved the instinct to react away, her face a carefully neutral mask. “Please trust me.”

The elf’s mouth quirked at the corner. “A thief is asking for _trust_.”

“Asking for the trust of a _mercenary_.”

The Dunmer regarded her for a moment, and Rheia tried desperately to hide the fact that she wanted nothing more to relent; she knew no one better than the mercenary who’d become her friend. “Next time you do, you should try more gold.”

The mage’s relief could have been scented on the wind. “If I’m not returned to the Huntsman in a fortnight, come find me.”

Jenassa shook her head. “I have no interest in searching for a corpse.” She extended a hand, eyes dark. “You will come, or you won’t.”

Rheia took her hand--freshly gauntleted in new leather after that spectacular story about ancestral fires that claimed the elf’s last set—and refused to believe that this would be the final memory, under the moon with the green scent of trees and the earthy breath of late summer.


	5. Blood Ties

“Your new family.” Valasca could not suppress her wide grin, presenting the initiate to the only individuals worth holding close. Nazir, Babette, Cicero—who was behaving, for n—

“Ooh, welcome, Brother, welcome!” Before anyone could stop him, the fool had thrown his arms around Sven’s broad shoulders, only to be promptly countered, falling to the floor with a thud—or would have fallen, had the clever Keeper not somersaulted to his feet.

There was an instance of taut silence, and then:

“Hmmph. Sven will warm up to Cicero eventually.” He indignantly brushed the dust off his motley. The breath the Listener had been holding almost turned into a chuckle at their Keeper’s good humor.

Nazir rolled his eyes. “I didn’t.”

Valasca stopped the protest forming on the fool’s lips. “Cicero is our Lady’s Keeper. He tends to her needs, and is a respected member of this family.” She met the Nord’s eyes, searching for any sign of disagreement. There was none, only a hint of curiosity on his broad features.

“Before we show you to your quarters, you will learn the Tenets—we expect you to follow _every_ one precisely, lest you earn the wrath of the Dread Father.”

Nazir was arching a brow, presumably at what he would term _unnecessary melodrama_ but Valasca paid it no mind. She had reasons beyond simple enjoyment.

Though it would be unfair to say the pleasure of threats did not factor in; the Altmer had left her hood on for just this occasion, in fact.

She faced the initiate, well aware of the shadows cast over her sharp features, flickering in the glow of the cooking fire. “Never dishonor the Night Mother: to do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.”The Listener met the Nord’s eyes, fixed him under an unwavering gaze, dovah’s blood thrumming under her skin.  “Never betray the Dark Brotherhood or its secrets; to do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.” The Dread Lord’s name rolled, hissing, off her lips. It was a grand comfort; it did not choke the airways or muffle itself like _Mara_ or _Akatosh_. “Never disobey or refuse to carry out an order from a Dark Brotherhood superior: to do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis. First and foremost, orders of the Night Mother, from the lips of the Listener, for the Listener’s word is Mother’s will. Second, orders from Nazir, whom I name Speaker upon this day, for the orders of the Speaker are the word of the Listener, and the will of the Night Mother.”

The Redguard bowed his head. “I hear your word and accept the appointment with humble gratitude, Listener.”

Valasca allowed her lips to curve in approval, and returned his nod. It was only right to make Nazir’s appointment official, and, according to Cicero, this method was not all that different from the Old Ways.

When the Listener’s gaze returned to Sven, she was pleased to note that his attention had not wavered. “Never steal the possessions of a Dark Brother or Dark Sister; to do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis. Finally, never kill a Dark Brother or Dark Sister: to do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis. The Dread Father is not forgiving.”

Valasca tried not to notice the Keeper’s excited bouncing.

“I will follow your laws.” Sven replied solemnly. Valasca respected his calm demeanor— _cold_ , perhaps, but no questions, no fear, no second thoughts.

None _visible_ , at least.

“ _Our_ laws, Brother.” The Listener offered a smile, though she knew it would be colored with her somewhat perverse enjoyment at the promise of blood—by Wrath or by contract. “Babette, please show Sven to his quarters?”

The girl grinned, fangs flashing in the low light. “With pleasure, Listener.” She took one of Sven’s hands in hers, radiating amusement as he tried to disguise the fact that all the color drained from his cheeks with one touch of her tiny, chilled fingers. “Come, Brother—you know the Tenets make you safe from my _proclivities_ as they protect me from yours.”

“Of course… Sister.”

Valasca’s lips drew back from her teeth in a grin as they disappeared down the passage. “He’ll take to us well, I think.”

Nazir shrugged. “We’ll see. I can have his leathers contracted and ready in about a week.”

“Well, then—once he has his first contract, you can evaluate his skill.”

“Sure, he can kill,” said the Redguard. “I believe ‘completely obliterated’ was the phrase my contact used when I asked about the state of the target. Can he execute the contact _neatly_ without you there, is my concern.”

The Listener cocked her head.” If he cannot, that problem will resolve itself.”

This earned a giggle from Cicero even as Nazir allowed a chuckle. “Have I said I like the way you think?”


	6. Blood of Several Varieties

Falmer. Rheia bloody hated Falmer.

  
“Not that you’re fond of all that many things.”

  
 _I like gold,_ the thief maintained as she slunk along the cavern wall, careful not to disturb any loose stones. Brynjolf and Karliah were not far behind, skirting along the edge of the stairs. The Dunmer would take care of any beasts below, and Rheia would catch any on this level.

  
“How about glittering gems?”

  
 _Yorick, if I didn’t, would I be stalking a thief on the ultimate glittery heist?_

  
She could almost hear the shrug of shoulders he no longer had. “What about revenge? I hear it’s a pretty relevant motivator.”

  
The Breton held her breath as one of the crudely armored devils slunk out of its tent-like den. She crept closer until she could see the filth caught between its pale skin and the dark chitin plates; she spilled its blood with a knife between its neck and shoulder, stomach turning at the muffled gurgles as the creature collapsed.

  
 _I think Jenassa enjoys that thought a little more than I do. Although…_ She patted down the chitin armor until she located a crude leather pouch. She drew a vial of sticky, black poison from it. _Although, I can’t say I won’t get a few good stabs in for her._ She tucked the poison away into one of her pouches.

* * *

 

“How many thieves does it take to steal the treasure of the Snow Elves?”

  
 _Shut up._ An entire damn tower collapsed and Rheia had to concentrate on repairing a snapped femur. No time for funny business. _If you make a funny bone joke, so help me…_  
She missed the skull’s reply as her vision swam and the energy at her fingertips wavered.

  
Shit.

  
Rheia attempted to ease off the magic, but it was about as effective as attempting to gradually stop a leak from a basin—it was caulk immediately or risk the slow seal being broken by pressure. Either way, there would be water everywhere before any success could be claimed, and so it was while the magick sapped her energy, seeping through her fingertips.

  
The cavern gradually crept back into focus: lichen-covered stones, shattered walls, her bloody fingers clasped over a bloody leg, torn leathers. Brynjolf’s muffled gasps returned to her ears and—

  
“…exhaustion, how much have you finished?”

  
But the mage’s mouth had gone dry and sticky with metallic phlegm. She elected to ignore Karliah’s question and shuffled through her satchel for two phials: one labelled in blue, the other brown. Rheia tapped the contents of the blue bottle down her throat (wishing it didn’t taste so of arid frost mirriam and mead) and passed the second bottle to Brynjolf. “Drink it,” she rasped, running her tongue across cracked lips.

  
He did, wincing as he shifted to take the potion. “Aye, lass,” his voice wavered only slightly. “What now?”

  
“We finish this and move on.” The thief replaced her hands and summoned a new flood of magick from the fresh warmth flooding her veins, guiding the energy with gentle focus through her fingertips, a steady ripple like a stream, contained by loose banks, shaped by unyielding river-stones of thought.

  
It pressed around Brynjolf’s femur, sinking through skin and sinew already knitted anew, showing the bone’s cracked seam by pooling between and along its edges.

  
Rheia drew the splinters together; this time, it would hold.

  
She eased carefully back, cheeks cold, neck and arms uncomfortably hot, stifling beneath the folds of the Nightingale armor. She produced on last potion from her satchel.

  
Brynjolf shuddered and grinned, color washing back into his cheeks. “Ah… feels like it’ll hold.” He took the phial offered to him and raised it in mock toast. “Thanks, lass.”  
Rheia shook her head, an ache beginning behind her left eye. “Don’t thank me until you’ve tasted that shit.”

  
He chuckled and downed the potion—with a grimace.

  
“Karliah, you have the brace?”

  
The dunmer nodded expression unseen beneath her hood.

  
“Help him into it.” The thief rifled through her satchel once more, ignoring a perturbed grunt from the disturbed skull. “The tissue won’t be completely solid for a couple days.

Try to hang back, Brynjolf.”

  
“And miss all the good loot?”

* * *

 

If they ran into one more chaurus, Rheia thought she might scream.

  
“Make it loud enough to cave this place in and put both of us out of my misery.”

  
 _Great idea._ There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in it, weariness seeping into the thief’s bones, and Yorick worried.

  
Her armor was slick with dark Falmer blood, sticky with chaurus goo (yes, she was getting very technical by this time) and rusty stains from Brynjolf’s leg and her own odd wounds crackling on her leathers.

  
 _I will never set foot in a Dwemer ruin again. Scratch that—I will never go underground again. Fuck it—not even for an emperor’s ransom._

  
“Language.”

  
 _Everything’s gone to shit; I deserve one._

  
She had nothing more to expel poison from the body and barely had enough energy to conjure even a flame capable of lighting a candle. Normally, Rheia would make camp, but time was, as they say, of the essence.

  
The thief might feel better if she knew how much further they had to go.

  
 _Fuck me._

  
“ _Language_ —that’s two!”

  
Rheia would say the little bastard was enjoying this.

  
She pushed Yorick from her mind and tried to picture a diamond the size of her head, all glitter and marvelous facets as they crept, sidling, crawling over what appeared to be a system of pipes, heads bowed low to avoid scraping their hoods across the uneven stone of the cavern’s ceiling. It did nothing to improve her mood when she noticed a pack of the damn overgrown insects below.

  
Rheia took extra care not to let her leathers squeak on the copper as she inched along, not daring to glance behind at her companions.

  
She tried instead to picture dropping Mercer onto the chaurus below and reveling in the screams as black razor jaws sliced him to ribbons, as poison slowed his limbs and forced him to stillness, as the creatures drank him up with their mandibles—

  
A small flicker of satisfaction in her chest even as her stomach churned.

  
“We might refine that blood-thirst yet.”

  
 _Or we could get this over with and get the fuck out of here._

  
“ **Language** , you little shit!”

* * *

 

Even eyeless, the statue was truly something to behold. Gleaming detail of a race long-disappeared, dusted only by the centuries, elaborate, soft folds of cloth in a robe of shining metal—one could mistake it for silk and skin. Yawning sockets did not detract from its beauty, but made the elven face seem mournful—and produced a thrill at _just how large those jewels must be to fit in those gaping holes_. And just how much trouble had it been for Mercer to remove them—

  
“Finally caught up, eh?”

  
Speak of the devil.

  
“It’s too bad you didn’t die on the way, but now I can personally make sure you don’t make it out.”

  
“Mercer! You must return the Key. You must know you won’t survive betraying Nocturnal.” Karliah’s shoulders were tensed, prepared to draw her bow—why she wanted to give the bastard an option was beyond Rheia, but—

  
“Neither will you, for your failure. You underestimate the power of the Skeleton Key-I can run until I get tired of it.” He stood with his satchel on a ledge near the statue’s shoulders, fingers fiddling with _something_ in the shadow that couldn’t quite—

  
 _There._

  
Rheia waved her arm in a desperate arc: “Out!”

  
But it was too late—the passage behind them was sealed and the pipe beside Mercer burst, the sound of rushing water filled their ears, rising too quickly for comfort. “When will you learn you can’t get the jump on me?”

  
Brynjolf drew his blade and raced for the stairs—crack! As he slid an sloshed in the pooling flood.

  
Mercer was already moving, nothing but a glittering sheen as the very shadows bent to conceal him. Karliah sloshed ahead to aid Brynjolf, hissing though it seemed his brace had held. He tried to wave her off.

  
Rheia drew her mace, boots sending ripples through water embracing her ankles, barely keeping her footing as she surged up the stairs to where the shadows had last writhed and shimmered with faint traces of magick. “Mercer!”

  
 _Crack!_ But her weapon only met parry. It gave her little satisfaction to know the bones of his wrist would ache for days.

  
She would much rather he had only moments left.

  
“Has Karliah been filling your head with tales of thieves with _honor?_ ” His voice was distant, echoed through the chamber. Rheia braced herself against the wall, eyes searching the stone path, rush of water pouring in her ears.

  
Brynjolf’s arm was heavy around Karliah’s shoulders.

  
She tried not to let her eyes linger on the forms already waist-deep. “Look for an exit!”

  
“Lass--!”

  
“Do it! Karliah—”

  
“ _Left!_ ”

  
Rheia arced her arm in a sweeping parry; her shoulder lit with hot needles. A cry tore from her throat, hissing through her teeth. Mercer tugged the blade free from her shoulder; her left arm fell swinging at her waist.

  
“Unfortunate I’m so familiar with the armor, isn’t it?”

  
The Breton hissed and sung her mace, but he was gone.

  
Rheia sidled up the stone path, flood too close behind. Karliah and Brynjolf struggled on the other side. She summoned the last of her magick to slow the bleeding, her side already sticky with the flow of blood beneath her armor. It did little to ease the pain in the useless limb, swinging freely at her side, sending hot jolts through her shoulder at each turn.

  
Cold sweat beading on her brow. She squinted at the shadows, praying— _there._ A haze.

  
 _Thkp._

  
There were few sounds so satisfying.

  
“I don’t have to be familiar.” Rheia wrenched the mace free of the leathers and skin (a sticky, creeping set of clicks that let you know without a doubt what kind of holes you punched into your target, so much more than a quiet snick or scrape of a blade), Mercer’s pained sneer flickering into view. The edges of the steel head glistened red.  
She raised the mace for a second blow but met only air. “Do you really think Nocturnal will reward you? Make no mistake: neither Karliah nor Nocturnal care for the Thieves’ Guild or you.”

  
“Keep talking, bastard,” she hissed. “All I want are the Eyes and your blood.”

  
A dry chuckle reverberated off the walls, churning with the rush of water, now licking her calves—she moved higher. “I knew as soon as Brynjolf brought you in—I felt the change in the wind. I’d have to end it with you on my blade, a mutual calling for blood. Rheia scanned the shadows—Mercer’s dagger caught the low light. “The Nightingales end here.”

  
She gritted her teeth against the burn of her shoulder as she ducked the blow. Her head swam.

  
A thrust cracked his breastbone, knocking the thief off-balance with just enough time to savor the surprise and outrage on his face before she bashed it in.

  
Mercer’s body sloshed into the flood, now at the breast of the statue. Pity such art would be buried here in water and darkness—with Mercer’s corpse for company, no less. Very undignified.

  
Rheia shouldered his satchel with a shrug—damn Eyes were heavy—and picked the Skeleton Key from his pocket, thrumming with the sweet call of magick between her fingers.

  
“Karliah—” she croaked, white-hot needles swimming through her arm.

  
“Here!” She waved from behind the Snow Elf’s mighty head. “There’s light from above—it might be the only way.”

  
“Gods,” Rheia groaned. That meant swimming… or at least staying afloat. Water, cold, pressed around her waist, a strange not-wet sensation outside her leathers. She rummaged through Mercer’s satchel—shoving his body away when it drifted too close—in desperate search of _some_ kind of potion. Poisons, poisons, more poisons—stamina—poison—and—yes! She downed the health elixir. Not a permanent solution, but it would further slow the bleeding and ease the pain enough for limited movement.

  
Hopefully it would be enough.

  
“Do as little as possible” was the muffled, gurgling suggestion. “I don’t plan on spending eternity underwater: I can’t bloody swim!”

  
 _Of course not._ (“You’re a skull” or “you don’t even have _one_ functional arm” would have been redundant.)

  
Rheia did not have to wait long for the water to catch her and push her toward the stone ceiling. Her arm burned. Current dragged at her armor, the satchel—suddenly too heavy. The cowl over her mouth pressed and clung with each slosh through the murk—a light head, dim, but there. A silhouette—two—

  
She stifled a scream (poorly) when Brynjolf and Karliah grabbed her arms and hoisted her into the passage.

  
The first thing Rheia did was tear her hood from her face and cherish the stale cavern air.

  
“We made it.”

  
“Thanks to you, lass.” Brynjolf clapped her good shoulder, but the resulting jostle set her teeth on edge.

  
She smiled. “Something like that, I guess. If Karliah hadn’t found a way out—”

  
“Come on.” The elf in question gestured ahead. “We need to get out of here and tend to our wounds properly; neither of you are fully well.”

  
It was like a little rainstorm on the stone when Rheia stood, water puddling under her boots. “I hope there’s proper shelter nearby. I feel like sleeping into next week… with the payoff of the ultimate heist under my pillow to keep me company.” She patted the satchel.

  
“Aye—wouldn’t we all? Though you might want to go for _beside_ you, keeping you warm; as I understand, stashing something that big under your pillow would give you a royal crick in the neck.”


	7. Sigils and Contracts

Nocturnal was an awesome sight to behold—living shadow, a cloak of night itself, a voice that soothed even as it chilled and prickled the hair on Rheia’s neck and arms. Every nerve alight, warm scent and color of magick caressing her skin, seeping into her bones, lighting her mind. This was benevolence, even as Nocturnal's words washed cold through the air, the magick left Rheia warm through to her heart.

When the Daedra departed, the world seemed a chilly void, grey and incomplete.

Rheia took a deep breath, savoring the metallic trace of magick left in the air. “Nocturnal’s words were indifferent, but… she was warm.”

The dunmer nodded. “Think of her as a scolding mother who pushes her child to do better. You fulfilled the task, and she is pleased with you.”

 _With you._ Rheia chose not to press the subject. The Lady was pleased, and yet… “Karliah,” An emptiness had settled in her chest. “Is there anything…” She stopped. Tried gain. “I feel…”

“Yes.” She gestured around them—runes, ancient, cool, glowed on the floor of the chamber, each accompanied by a phase of the moon. “You must choose which Agent you shall be to Nocturnal . The magic will reside with you—a piece of the lady herself, your connection to her realm.”

Rheia studied the runes—The _Agent of Strife_ , the _Agent of Subterfuge_ , and the _Agent of Stealth_. Full moon, half moon, crescent. The runes told of poison, of manipulation, of shadow. She met the other Nightingale’s ruby eyes. “Which are you, Karliah?”

A smile crinkled the edges of her eyes, mouth hidden under the cowl. “The roles shift and change with time. Whatever I was before, you have the honor of choosing the place which best suits you, and Brynjolf and I will follow after.”

“I…” Rheia traced her hand along the top of her thigh, as though wiping sweat from her palm, though both arms were covered to the fingertips in form-fitting gauntlets. “Surely we should talk about this?”

“Brynjolf and I already did.”

The mage frowned. “And you just thought I didn’t—”

Karliah raised a hand, pale light from the pool and the runes playing across it, casting lively little shadows between her fingers. “We decided that whatever you chose, all would be for the best. You defeated Mercer, you deserve the choice.”

Rheia cast her eyes again over the runes. Magick emanated from them in gentle waves that suddenly felt far too heavy, currents of magic dragging down beneath her skin, armor pulling her toward the stone floor. She locked her knees to stay upright.

_All she had wanted was to attend the College of Winterhold._

Instead, she got the skooma trade, angry kajit, dragons, bandit raids, black Falmer blood, stolen treasures, Nightingales, Maven’s leering eyes—

Jenassa, at her back, a companion in the shadows. Something she might call a family; a band of thieves more reliable than anything else in the pitfalls and mazes that led her to Winterhold.

She stepped into the gleaming image of the crescent moon.

It was a start.

\------

The moon shown bright among a blanket of stars by the time Rheia slipped through the door of the Drunken Huntsman, fingers nimbly playing the simple lock.

Jenassa dozed before the fire’s dying embers. They cast a gentle, red glow on her dark features, catching the ruby of her drowsy eyes, the lively yellow of her tattoos. Her mouth was set in a grim line, arms folded over her chest, knife cradled on her lap. She watched the embers flicker and breathe and wink out into shadow. Rheia’s eyes softened in the darkness.

“It’s late,” she said.

The elf’s head snapped up immediately.

Rheia spread her arms, half-grinning. “Well?”

 _Thump._ “You resourceful bastard,” she muttered into her hair.

The mage wrapped her arms around Jenassa’s waist. “Told you I’d be back.” She chuckled. “Learned a couple things from you, after all.”

\------

The Night Mother’s presence was the comfort of the Void itself—a moment of blissful nothing greeted Valasca every time she knelt before the casket and altar. Responsibility, regret, joy, sorrow, Being--all wiped away for a gentle start, leaving her suspended like a spider’s gossamer silk on the breeze.

**_Yet another child prays to their Mother._ **

“I Listen.”

**_Seek out the lost soul imprisoned in Whiterun. Accept what he offers, and eliminate the target._ **

“I obey.”

Valasca prepared to stand, but a deliberate hand seized her muscles; she wavered on the stone, legs trembling.

**_Take special care with this contract, my Listener._ **

And she was gone.

Valasca stood, stretching legs left cramped by the Night Mother’s warning. Or—perhaps it was a request. A high-profile target? she wondered. A grin took her lips. After the Emperor, most of the contracts seemed pale by comparison. Simple. Petty.

A warning from the Night Mother was promising.

“Cicero!”

The motley head popped from around the corner of the passage, gleefully tilted. “Yeeees, Listener?”

“I leave at dawn. How would you like to attend me on this trip?”

He bounded fully into view, bells jingling, boots sweeping the stone in a jig. “Oh, Cicero would be most, most delighted!”

The Listener expected nothing less, and the smile did not leave her lips. The tips of her ears nearly quivered in anticipation (or it might have only been the chill in the Sanctuary’s air). “Then conclude any business you have, Keeper. We go to Whiterun.”


End file.
